Poor Nelly. November has been swept along on an endless rattle of wind and rain, and as a result her walks have become short and repetitive. It’s not that we’d melt in the rain like icing sugar, but that our usual tracks are criss-crossed by streams of varying widths that love to burst their banks and leave us stranded. Neither of us are water dogs.
Despite this stormy weather curtailing our adventures, I still love the drama of it all: the slowness of first light; the gauzy rain coming in veils across distant Morridge Edge, the animate leaves stuck in handprints to my bedroom window; the pervasive smell of woodsmoke in the house; the ever present mud tracked in through the outer hall. That is my winter collage, cut from stormy scraps, an oddly warm palette the colour of flames and fallen leaves. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that the winter doesn’t do this just for me, but for herself alone.
This descent into winter is as hypnotising and sensual as the first paint splatters of spring green, always looked for, always unexpected, and always too vast for me to capture in one wide, wet, reflected image of earth and sky.
I hope I always feel this magic at the turning of the seasons. I hope I always feel the winter’s wicked, mythic edge as I light the crow candles.
“Like some winter animal the moon licks the salt of your hand,
Yet still your hair foams violet as a lilac tree
From which a small wood-owl calls.”
― Johannes Bobrowski